Three Meters of Snow with No Air Pocket
by Servant of Anubis
Summary: The Winter War kinda sucked for everyone involved. Some more than others. Capture and recapture especially.


The rumble of the plane's engines failed to drown out the taunting. Between the soldier to his left and the one seated across from him in the body of the bomber, Finland hadn't felt this cornered since the Greater Wrath. Or quite so ready to hit someone.

"So with you captured, how many fascists does that leave to defend Helsinki? A thousand or so?"

"A thousand? More like a hundred."

"My guess is ten, nine of them old men."

"And the last a women!"

Finland thought of Tarja, furious at being holed up in the capital while he was on the front lines. When he left, she had wished him luck and safety, and didn't see him to the door.

"Hey, did you hear me? I know you understand me, idiot."

He fixed his glare on the tuft of blond visible from the co-pilot's seat and willed the other nation to understand just how quickly Finland would drown him in the gulf if given the chance.

"I'm _talking _to you," the soldier next to him snapped, elbowing him hard in the side. Finland bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted iron.

"Nuu, behave yourself," Russia half-shouted over the engine, glancing back at them. "He's been brainwashed by the fascists; it's not surprising he doesn't want to talk to you."

"Yeah, Dima, you're probably not his type," one soldier leered. The other swore and shoved him.

They weren't in Russian air space yet—he'd feel it when they crossed the border, even with the border feeling like frayed thread. Three weeks of near constant bombardment was all it took to wear it down, poke it full of holes so that the entire area around the Mannerheim Line dumped nausea into his stomach. Just three weeks. Given that Russia expected the entire war to be conducted in two weeks, he supposed three weeks was a victory in and of itself…

That might be all the victory he got. Barely two decades since his independence, and he'd lose it just like that.

"Ivan!" he shouted. Russia turned his head, the only indication he was listening.

He shouldn't ask this question. "What happens when we get to Moscow?"

Russia gave a short laugh. "Why, we go see Stalin, of course! It was his birthday two days ago, you know. I was so worried I wouldn't have anything to give him for a present. But now I have exactly what he wanted!"

Finland's stomach heaved and he swallowed with difficulty, as his mind split evenly into two factions: one which wanted to scream curses, and the other suffering a complete whiteout by terror. _Birthday present_, nothing but an object- he saw Russia walking him into an office and leaving him there, shutting the door behind him. He'd never make it back to the front lines, and whatever Stalin did- would he get exiled to Siberia? Or worse? And his people, what would happen to his people? Germany has said that Stalin- oh but how much could he believe of what Germany said about Russia and his power-hungry boss? Did it matter? He couldn't trust one side without getting struck by the other—

An explosion threw the plane sideways in the air, slamming his head into the seat. Alarm signals erupted into screeches on the dashboard.

"Son of a _whore-__" _Russia and pilot alike swore, Russia barking evasive orders as his hands flew across kill switches. The soldier scrambled for the gunner as the plane began to climb. Finland hoped he missed. Though getting shot down by his own men probably constituted a special sort of hell. He didn't follow that line of thinking much farther, white knuckles fisted into the worn fabric of his pants as his eyes crawled under the cockpit seats. Where the fuck were the parachutes? He might be able to dive for the door, no one was stupid enough to fire inside the metal body of a plane, the ricochet would be lethal—

The second explosion was closer, the seat belt he had considered undoing the only thing that save him from being thrown to the floor. His ears were ringing, he could barely make out Russia shouting into the radio headset—

"Mayday Mayday Mayday; Siversky-1; this is TsAGI-40 Medvezhonok; position is 61 degrees 23.3N, 28 degrees 25.9E, heading 153. We're under enemy fire; requesting Polikarpov I-16 back-up escort, I repeat, requesting Polikarpov I-16 back-up escort. Altitude 2,300m, climbing to 5,300m. Four souls on aboard. These fucking lunatic fascists—"

But whatever else Russia had to say about it was cut off by the several rounds of machine gun fire that punched through the body of the plane. Finland watched as if the world was slowed as the tracers shot along the wing, and directly to the engine.

And then nothing.

-o-

He noticed the cold first, pressed against his cheek and soaking through his coat. The scent of snow, and scorched metal, and smoldering rubber. The howl of the engine was gone, replaced by that peculiar muffled stillness of snow. A thought of his men flickered into his mind, and he brushed it away.

Everything hurt. An ache nestled within every inch reminded him of the war at hand, and more—when he breathed, a little hollow space gaped open in his rib cage, carved out by the Purges. His finger tips had traced the smooth skin dozens of times, seeking reassurance, and so far it had never actually been there. But as he laid there, he thought he felt it peel a little wider. He squirmed, trying to work his hand under his body, convinced that this time his fingers would dip right into his chest and—

A boot pressed itself solidly against his shoulder and kicked him over. Russia blinked his eyes open, moaning at the sheer _bright_ and sun on snow, forcing a trembling arm up to shield his face. His brain failed to sort out what was begin said to him but did let his gaze focus: a soldier dressed all in white stood over him, sighting down the barrel of his rifle.

Russia wheezed out a sigh, shutting his eyes against the white. This was going to hurt.

"Odota! Älä ammu!"

—

Finland slogged through the snow, body screaming protests as he carved a path away from the wreckage strewn through the woods. He guessed from the swath of damage that cut through the forest that the sturdy pines had tore the rest of the plane to pieces, whatever had survived the initial explosion. Given the number of lakes in his territory, hitting straight forest in a plane crash was the worst sort of luck.

He moved from tree to tree, not for cover, but for the wind-blown little hollows around the trunks where the snowfall was less. His hip ached; he could feel the tendons and muscles knitting themselves back together as he limped along. He would probably heal faster if he stopped to rest, but he didn't see Russia among the twisted scraps of metal when he woke up, nor any foot prints. Russia alone behind the Finnish line was knowledge he wanted to spread to his men as quickly as possible.

Finnish, from somewhere up ahead. He forced his legs to move a little faster. A small cadre of figures stood detached from the treeline, two of them aiming their rifles at the ground— no, he could make out the dark smudge of a person lying in the snow, just as the shouts resolved themselves into words:

"Name and rank! How did you get here?"

No way the Russian soldiers survived that crash— "Wait! Don't shoot!"

He suppressed a wince as the remaining men swung up their rifles; he continued forward at what might pass for a jog in spring. "Don't shoot! This is Lieutenant Tino Vainamoinen; don't shoot, that's an order!"

They lowered their rifles, save the two men covering the man on the ground. One walked out to meet him; Finland dropped his hands to his knees and breathed, willing the pain in his hip to stop.

The man saluted, and Finland wearily returned it, noting the two stripes marking the man as a sergeant. "Report," he ordered as he forced himself upright.

"Sir, while on patrol to investigate the crash of a Russian bomber, we discovered him—" gesturing back to the man in the snow. "We're not sure yet it he's a crash survivor, or what his name and rank is; we had only just come across him when you appeared…" The Finn trailed off, eyes on his uniform. "Sir, are you alright?"

Finland glanced down at the blood stains on his uniform. "I'm fine," he dismissed, burying the limp as he walked over, his men pulling back to give him space.

Russia looked up at him from the snow. His uniform was in worse condition that Finland's, tattered and bloodstained from shrapnel, even charred in some places. No surprise he was still on the ground.

Russia gave him an exhausted smile. "So good to see you again, Tino."

Finland ignored that, half turning back to his men, rattling off in rapid Finnish, "This is Captain Ivan Braginsky, a key member of the Russian communist party and a personal friend of Stalin's. He is incredibly dangerous. Please use extreme caution— he has a temper and is known to go from apparently calm to murderously violent in literally seconds. Don't touch his scarf. Am I understood?"

At the chorus of yessirs, he turned back to Russia. "Alright you son of a bitch, let's get you off the ground."

Russia held eye contact with him as the soldiers hauled him to his feet, a grimace flinching over his features as he stood, hands on his head, letting them pat him down. They relieved him of his pistol; Finland accepted it without a word, checked how many bullets he had, and told himself to use ever single one if it meant keeping his men alive.

The men stepped back when Russia was clear, giving him a half meter berth. A lopsided grin tilted Russia's mouth as Finland walked up.

"So, Tino, what now? Going to march me back to Helsinki so I can be there when my air force reduces it to rubble?" he smirked, hands still on his head.

Finland considered him for two seconds, before swiftly sucker punching him in the gut as hard as he could.

Russia grunted as he fell back to the ground, landing hard. The cough turned into a rasping laugh as he pressed an arm across his stomach, sitting up to look at Finland.

The Nordic glared. "If you try anything, _anything_, I fucking _bury_ you under three meters of snow with no air pocket."

"Da, da…" He coughed again, letting his head drop.

Two men dragged Russia to his feet again as Tino turned to the rest, shifting back into his native tongue. "Does anyone have handcuffs? Rope? Fuck." Confiscating weapons was enough to get a captured soldier to behave, under normal circumstances. He didn't want to risk it. The weight of the TT-33 in his hand felt good, a solid piece of evidence against the claims that he couldn't take care of himself in a war alone. If he could get Russia back to Helsinki…

He conferred with the sergeant. Nearest thing that passed for a base was an airstrip on a lake roughly twenty-five kilometers north by northwest of their current position. On skis it took the patrol a little over an hour to reach the crash site; with two people now on foot in two to three feet of snow, depending on the drifts… Ten hours. Given how long the night was, easily a two-day trip.

Getting to the airstrip with Russia in tow and no casualties seemed just short of a miracle. But equally unacceptable was simply letting Russia go. He bit the inside of his cheek, then informed his men that they would return to base, reminding them to be vigilant. He hoped they believed him when he stressed just how dangerous their prisoner was.

They set off, position assembled around Russia: two abreast in the vanguard, followed by Russia with Finland at his side, pistol at the ready, then the remaining three men in a reverse triangle as the rearguard. They advanced at close to a crawl, silence stretching between them like a web, the only vibrations from the quiet hush of skis over snow. He could feel Russia staring at him, and when the sensation didn't leave, he considered the merits of marching behind Russia. But he had enough views of the man's scarf tails to last a lifetime. He could ignore a bit of staring.

And then Russia started singing.

At first, it sounded like any marching song—upbeat in that ironic way all war songs were, with a steady tempo to ease marching. When Russia hit the second half of the first stanza— Finland turned his head to look at him, mouth agape, horrified disgust vying with fury. Russia didn't glance his way, grinning through the song, violet eyes glimmering. Thank god none of the men in this unit spoke Russian. Of course, the song actually used the Finnish word for their country, so they knew Russia was singing about them. They were wrong. Russia was only singing to one person.

_The pine forest on the shores curl_

_A border miserly outlook._

_Greet us, beautiful Finland_

_In a necklace of clear lakes!_

He wondered how inclined to sing Russia would be if he shot out a kneecaps and forced him to walk anyways. Or maybe if he grabbed one of the men's bayonets and punctured a lung—he couldn't possibly sing in that condition.

_We__'re used to fraternizing with victories_

_And again on the roads we carry into combat_

_With trodden grandparents,_

_Their glory of the Red Star!_

He considered emptying a single round into Russia's temple, but that would waste a bullet he might need later. Also it would startled his men.

_Many knotted lies over the years_

_To confuse the people of Finland._

_Expand well now to us in trust,_

_Wide halves of the same goal!_

If the woods weren't so damp from snow, he could built a pyre and slowly burn away the filth clouding Russia's head. Depending on how long he kept the fire going, that might put Russia out of battle for weeks.

_Neither jesters nor scribbling holy fools_

_To confuse more of your hearts._

_Robbed many times of your homeland -_

_We arrive to return her!_

If they came across a smaller lake, or a pond even, he could saw a hole into the ice and drop Russia in, his pockets crammed with rocks. Then he'd just slide the cut out square back into place, and he wouldn't have to worry about Russia participating in the war again until May.

_We__'ve come to help you straighten out_

_Pay back with interest for your shame._

_Greet us, beautiful Finland_

_In a necklace of clear lakes!_

When the song finished, Russia started another marching song. The lyrics were just standard propaganda, though one of the men in front shifted, glancing back at them. Finland gave him a thin-lipped smile. Even with both lungs intact, Russia couldn't possibly sing the entire way to base.

Eleven songs later, two of which were 'Greet Us, Beautiful Finland' again, Finland started to revise his initial estimate of how stubborn Russia was. Or how determined he was to drive Finland up a wall. His men were taking clues from him, so as long as he didn't snarl, they were unlikely to complain. But his patience stretched taunt between his ribs like a worn-out thread. The constant pressure was damning.

He needed a plan. Eventually exhaustion and injury and stress would bury themselves in him, a hatchet cleaving through his sternum straight to his heart and he needed for that to _not happen. _If he lashed out, Russia might try it, and they were surrounded by five fragile humans.

"Sir?" the private marching ahead of him glanced back. "Excuse me if this is inappropriate but… why haven't you told him to shut up yet?"

"He is surprisingly undeterred by bullets," Finland answered, sending a baleful glare at Russia. "Besides, he's regretfully too valuable to shoot."

"Shouldn't we radio Helsinki then? Let them know we have him?"

Finland blinked. "You have a radio in this unit?"

"Yessir. It's Paananen's shift to carry it." He nodded to one of the men in the rear guard.

Finland wasn't sure calling in Russia's capture was worth it. No reason to give his men a morale boost knowing full well it wasn't likely to last.

Beside him, Russia launched back into 'Greet Us, Beautiful Finland'. He set his teeth. He _should_ call it in, if only for the shit it would cause Russia—

His eyes widened and he held up a hand, bringing the march to a halt. Russia smiled at him, smug and _so damn_ sure of himself.

Finland met his gaze and addressed him in Russian. "Russia. If you don't _shut the fuck up_, I will radio Helsinki, informing them of your capture. With explicit orders to immediately radio Moscow to inform them of the same."

"Pity you'll have to wait until we reach the base," Russia returned, as if addressing a child.

"Paananen is carrying a field radio," Finland returned, waving the soldier forward. A fierce vengeance welled up in his chest as he saw Russia's smile slip off and shatter. "I say we call you in right now. Paananen—"

"_Don__'t,_" Russia snapped.

"Are you going to cut the shit with the obnoxious songs?" Finland demanded.

"Fine," he snarled, the mirth on his face twisted into smoldering rage. Finland thought he caught a hint of something else, but didn't want to look long enough to puzzle it out.

They continued marching, finally in blessed silence. His men seemed to uncurl a little. Russia kept pace beside him, radiating a sullen fury, his smile lying broken in the snow somewhere behind them. Finland discovered he felt no pity at all.

As they marched, Finland calculated risk. Which points were most likely to trigger Russia to attempt escape? Likely anything that resulted in less troops—someone was going to have to piss eventually. He wanted at least three men covering Russia at any given point; ideally he'd be one of the three. That would allow a unit of two or three to break off if needed. One of the men veering physically too close to Russia also poised a hostage threat—that sounded like exactly the level of bullshit Russia would try.

He glanced at Russia. The outward fury had died down; now he just marched, eyes forward but not fixed. He was playing the same game: how would he escape?

They encountered a small river and followed it upstream, looking for low sloping banks to cross. As the first two skiers slid onto the ice, Finland grabbed Russia's elbow, grip tight as they made their way onto the slick surface. He felt the thin layer of snow compress beneath his boots, destroying the traction, and his brain flagged this scenario as a likely escape point.

They shuffled their way across the frozen river with no issue, however, turning to watch the last three skiers push up the bank. One had trouble with it, Paananen, weighed down with an extra 20kg of field radio. He slid back onto the ice with a soft clatter.

"Come on, Paananen; move your ass!" one of the men teased.

"Fuck you; it's your turn to carry the radio," he huffed, stomping up the bank, skis in a V-shape.

They dropped their rucksacks and started rearranging their contents for the radio transfer. The unit looked on; one man lit up a quick cigarette as the others bickered in a familiar rhythm.

"Why'd you stuff it at the bottom, dumbass?"

"That's where you're _supposed_ to carry it—weighs less or something."

"It doesn't make it weigh less," a third chimed in. "It puts it closer to your center of gravity, idiot."

Finland dropped his hand from Russia's elbow, stifling a yawn. The cigarette smelled tempting, but asking his men for one seemed inappropriate. Tarja disapproved of them entirely, but she wasn't here to scowl at him—

Russia's hand shot out, grabbing the hand with the pistol at the wrist and twisting it sharply towards the Finnish soldiers—Finland shouted, but Russia didn't fire, wrenching the weapon away. The startled men scrambled to swing their rifles to shoulder, not fast enough-Finland lunged as Russia fired a single shot into his shin.

Red exploded across his vision as he crumpled onto one knee. He forced his head up—Russia sprinted through the snow like a wolf, reaching the tree line as the first shots rang out. Bark shattered in a hail of splinters.

"Hold your fire!" he ground out, then again shouting, "Men, hold your fire!"

"Should we go after him?" Paananen asked urgently. All eyes were on him, a bow string ready for release.

Finland looked at each of them. The oldest couldn't be more than 30 at most. Russia had made it to the tree line with a pistol. Granted, they were on skis, and Russia would leave a hell of a trail, but…

"Let him go." He climbed to his feet, blinking back white as the bullet scraped against bone. "He's not going to last long in the winter woods with no supplies," he added, which was a lie, but his men nodded, tension easing out of their shoulders. Finland bit back the impulse to apologize.

Of course Russia would target him in the escape. The thought that this was due to Russia considering him the biggest threat didn't comfort him much. Maybe it was because Russia knew that he wouldn't hesitate a heartbeat to shoot if Russia acted out. Disarm and immobilize him—thanks, jackass—before running straight for cover in the woods while the men recovered from distraction. At least no one died.

Good thing too. If Russia _had_ killed one of his men, Finland wouldn't have let him reach the woods. And he would've kept him dead, to the amazement and disbelief of the remaining men, all the way back to base. Without wasting bullets.

"Sir, you're bleeding!"

Finland shook himself, following the pointed finger down to his shin. "Yeah, so it goes." He plopped himself down in the snow, the men quickly digging out the first aid. He clenched his teeth when the bullet was extracted, and sucked in a shaky breath. "Anyone have a cigarette left? I could use it."

He let the smoke fill his lungs and blew it out in a stream as the wound was wrapped. His pride stung, rubbed raw by that hideous song and Russia's escape, but really… Might be better this way. Now he actually had a chance of sleeping tonight.

—

They made it back to base just after noon the next day, Finland limping in on a crutch fashioned from pine.

The crutch was gone by next day, and two days after he was declared fit for combat. He radioed Mannerheim and got his blessing to fly air missions for a week or so before returning to the line.

As he closed the radio line, he overheard someone delivering a report in the captain's office… and felt a chill steal over him.

He slipped in without a word—the captain nodding at him briefly. Finland stood by the door, listening as the man recounted discovering an ambushed unit while on patrol two days prior. Seven of the eight men in the squad were dead, including the sergeant: one from strangulation, six from slit throats, and the sergeant from an execution-style bullet wound. There were minimal signs of struggle. The remaining man, a 19-year-old private, was found tied to a birch tree near the center of the camp. The field radio was missing, as were a rifle, ammunition, and several grenades. By the time a patrol found the squad, wolves had been through the area.

"The, bodies are in a bad way, sir," the man concluded.

The captain nodded, told him he did the right thing to bring the private back immediately, and dismissed him.

Finland stared fixed at the back wall. His next step was abruptly, startlingly obvious. When the captain addressed him, it took a moment to pull himself back.

"Captain? Please radio Mannerheim and inform him that I'm going on a sniping run. Alone," he informed the officer crisply before leaving. He paused at the door.

"By how much do the Russians outnumber us again?"

"Ah, 3:1 in manpower—"

"Okay. So that means I need twenty-one." Finland nodded to himself, and shut the door.

There were so many ways Russia's capture could have ended. Finland had been _nice_. He could've—_should have_, if that report was any suggestion—killed Russia and kept him dead for the rest of the war. But he didn't. Because he wasn't a heartless asshole.

But Russia.

Well.

If Russia was going to indiscriminately murder people in their sleep, then Finland was _not_ going to have a guilty conscious about sniping active soldiers.

Russia killed seven?

Finland could even that out. With interest.

-o-

_Prinimai nas, Suomi - Krasavitsa_ is a Soviet propaganda song written in 1939, which attempts to justify the invasion of Finland by Soviet forces. Many videos of it exist on YouTube; I encourage you to give them a listen if you want a better idea of how perfectly Russia got under Finland's skin.

Stalin did indeed expect the defeat of Finland to coincide with his birthday on December 18th, just over two weeks past the start of the Winter War on December 1st, 1939. Russian troops were warned to be careful not to accidentally cross the border into Sweden. Had Stalin not crippled his armed forces during the Purges, that might have actually been a reality. Instead, the Winter War dragged on until March 14th, 1940 and ended with the Moscow Peace Treaty.

Finland ceded the entire Karelian Isthmus as well as a large swath of land north of Lake Ladoga, plus part of the Salla region in the north. (This was actually more land than the Soviet Union initially demanded from Finland before the start of the war. The Soviet Union also kept the cities of Repola and Porajärvi, which would have originally returned to Finland according to the pre-war demands.) To put it in other words, Russia got 11% of Finland's pre-war territory, which accounted for 33% of Finland's pre-war economy.

Many Hetalians have the impression that Finland 'won' this war. If the victory conditions were 'not losing independence', then yes. Those are also _very_ low victory conditions. The fierce and dedicated fighting displayed by the Finns would have ultimately not been sufficient to beat back the technological and numerical superiority held by the Soviets. It _did_, however, give the Finnish government the time and push-back they needed to negotiate peace. Without the amazing national dedication of the Finnish people, Finland would have become part of the Soviet Union.

In short, Russia won the war, at the cost of some national pride, and Finland remained independent, albeit with territory loss. The lesson we should take away: never, _ever_ doubt what can be accomplished when a nation experiences a "surge in national patriotism".


End file.
